


Lists

by JoMarch



Series: Scar Tissue [4]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3088511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh isn't recovering, and Donna's concerned. Sequel to Ryo Sen's story <i>Scar Tissue: Recovering.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lists

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Basically all of season two up to _Noel._
> 
> Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Which is probably just as well. 
> 
> Thanks: As always to Ryo Sen, for encouragement, inspiration and sending me angst-filled stories when I'm in the middle of Grading Hell.

I am a great believer in making lists. I find them extremely useful. They help me stay organized; they give me a plan to follow. Josh occasionally mocks me about this, but even he cannot deny that his world runs more smoothly thanks to my list-making habit.

I'm in the middle of putting together my first list of the morning -- Things I Have to Make Sure Josh Remembers to Do Today -- when I see him heading my way.

Senior staff must have ended early.

"Josh--"

He storms passed me and slams his office door.

Okay, something's wrong. I follow him into the office and nearly get hit with the paperweight he's hurtling toward the door.

He looks as horror struck as I feel. Whatever's got him angry is now about to be replaced with a round of guilt, so I figure I'd better go for the joke.

"Go ahead and say it," I tell him in my best long-suffering, resigned voice.

"What?" he asks.

"That it's my own fault for not knocking."

"Not funny, Donna." He pauses. "And it is."

I gesture at the paperweight now lying at my feet. Way too close to my feet. "Get whatever was bothering you out of your system there?"

"Donna," he says in that warning tone of his. The tone he uses when he wants me to not question him about something.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He should know by now that his "leave-me-alone" voice doesn't work on me.

"Did it ever occur to you that there are parts of my life that are absolutely none of your business?" he asks.

"No, I can't say that it has. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Right. It's just National Throw-Paperweights-at-the-Door Day."

He gets this look on his face like he's just figured something out. "Were you in on it too?" he asks.

"In on what?"

"I mean, why not, right? She got Toby and Sam to gang up on me. Why not get you too? You already said you agreed with her, so--"

"What are you talking about? Her who? CJ?"

"So you were in on it."

"No, I wasn't. Whatever 'it' was."

"Then how did you know I meant CJ?"

"Gee, Josh, let me guess: You come out of senior staff in a snit, you're blaming whatever happened on a woman -- why would I pick out CJ from the many women on the president's senior staff?"

"You're either on her side or mine, Donna."

"I can't pick sides when I don't know what the issue is," I state reasonably.

"It shouldn't matter what the issue is. You should be on my side unconditionally."

I grin. "My boss, right or wrong?" I suggest. "Because I have to tell you, Josh, you can't expect that kind of loyalty from someone on my salary."

I'm waiting. Variations on "I need a raise" are among the staples of our repertoire. They're good for at least ten minutes of banter. He refuses, however, to take the bait.

"You should be on my side," he repeats. I swear there are tears in his eyes.

"What--" I start.

There's a knock at the door. And Sam's voice asking to come in.

"Shit," Josh mumbles.

I look at Josh, who nods for me to let Sam in.

"I am on your side," I tell Josh before I open the door and leave the room. "Whatever it is, Joshua, I'm on your side." 

*** 

I am the world's leading expert on Joshua Lyman.

I am the person who, in effect, gets paid to gauge Josh's mood each day. My job requires that I tease and banter and cajole Josh into a better frame of mind. If he stays hostile or angry or belligerent for too long, I've failed.

Over the course of three years, I've learned quite a lot. I now know, for instance, how to apologize to senators and diplomats and cabinet members for things Josh has said and make it sound as though the apology comes from Josh himself. I've also learned how to word the apology in such a way that I don't retract any part of the ideological stand Josh was taking.

But this is what I don't know: I don't know how to apologize to Josh's best friend for whatever just happened in that office.

Whatever happened, it was quick. I could hear Josh's voice -- I think the entire bullpen could hear Josh's voice -- though I couldn't make out the words. Then Sam went rushing out of Josh's office, as though he were furious about something.

Joshua, what have you done now?

This time I knock. No point taking chances. Also no response. I take my life in my hands and go in anyway.

Josh is standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. I stand by the door because he's in such obvious pain, and I know I'll end up doing something unprofessional if I touch him.

"I should have died," he says. "That would have made everything easy."

"How can you say that?" I ask. I'm trying not to sound hysterical at the very idea, but I'm not sure I'm succeeding. "How can you even think that?"

"There would have been a hell of a political upside. I'd be the big martyr for the liberal cause -- gun control, hate crimes, vetoing this damn Defense of Marriage thing -- just wheel out the ghost of Josh Lyman and watch our agenda get through Congress with lightening speed. No one would dare vote against us." He gives this short, bitter laugh. "I screwed up my big chance to make a real difference in policy there."

"You make it sound as though everyone cares more about the legislation than about you. That's just wrong, Josh."

"Is it?"

"You're talking about people who love you. You're saying things about Sam and CJ and Toby, and it's unfair. You mean more to them than--"

"I used to. The old Josh." He rubs his hand over his eyes. He's so tired lately. He thinks I don't notice, but I do. "I just got a lecture from Sam about how I don't fight like I used to. I give up too easily. Also, he says I'm cruel." Josh shakes his head. "I just got a lecture from Sam Seaborn. Probably the first time in his life he said something like that. He said I'm being deliberately cruel to the people I love."

"The people who love you are strong enough to take it," I answer. "If this is what you need to do to get over this thing, we can take it."

"For how long? Because I don't seem to be making any progress here. I can't stop feeling these things. I've reached the point where I hate all of you for not suffering like I did. For not getting shot."

"We suffered, Josh. Not the same way you did, but we all suffered."

"What is this -- some New Age, Oprah bullshit? You feel my pain? You don't know the first thing about my pain!"

"Maybe not. I know all about _my_ pain though. I know about spending fourteen hours waiting to see if you'd live. I know about thinking that the person I love most in the world was going to die."

Oh shit. I just said that out loud, didn't I? I just said The Thing I'm Not Supposed to Say to Josh.

He doesn't even react to it. I don't think it even registered with him.

"It's just..." He stops, like he's having trouble finding the words. Josh rarely has trouble finding words, and this scares me. "It's as though this anger is all I have left. It's like every morning I wake up, and some other emotion is missing. I can't remember what it feels like to want to fight for this stuff any more. I know I used to care about Sam and CJ and the others, but I don't remember what that felt like. Pretty soon I'll have lost everything else I used to care about."

He sits down in the visitor's chair as though saying this much has exhausted him and he can't make the effort to walk all the way to his desk. So I move too and sit on the floor beside him.

"I don't think it works that way," I tell him. "I don't think you lose the ability to care about people. I think you just need to concentrate on working through the anger and then everything will come back."

He shakes his head. "It's been all these months, and I'm not getting better. The more time that goes by, the less it seems I'm able to feel. I'm just...I'm tired and I'm angry and that's all I can manage to feel."

I reach out and take hold of his hand. "That's okay," I tell him. "CJ and Sam and -- everyone can wait until you feel better. There's no rush."

He stares down at our entwined hands as though he's trying to figure out some great mystery. "What happens," he asks, "when _this_ stops meaning anything to me. What do I do then?"

It means something _now_? Of course it does. Because I'm his friend. That's what it means. That's all he means, and I shouldn't read anything into this.

"You need to make a list," I tell him.

He grins, and I am ridiculously proud of myself for a moment. "I should have known you'd say that," he tells me.

"No, Josh, seriously. You can start with a list of the things you still enjoy."

"I wouldn't be able to think of a single item for a list like that."

"Of course you could," I answer. "You get great pleasure from making Republicans miserable."

"Not nearly as much as I used to."

"Still. You can get angry, and it's part of the job. You've got to love that. What else?"

"Mocking people. I've always enjoyed it, you know, but lately it's become an obsession."

"See? That's two items on your list. Life isn't entirely bleak."

"Donna, the only two things on this list of yours are based around my being filled with rage. Doesn't this strike you as a bad thing?"

"No, it strikes me as a place to start. Oh, and I've got a third item -- you're absolutely relishing wallowing in all this self-pity."

"What I want to know is how would you talk to me if you didn't love me because if this is how you express affection--"

Oh, God. He did hear it. He not only heard it, he repeated it.

"I was using the word love there in a strictly platonic sort of way," I say.

And he grins. For a moment, just one small moment, he's the old Josh again. He takes my hand again. "Of course," he says, "when I mentioned this, I was referring to the platonic thing too."

"Well, just so we're clear on that," I say. But he's rubbing his thumb against my palm, and I think my voice sounds a little funny.

"Sometimes," he whispers, "I am still very clear on _this_. Sometimes it's the only thing I'm clear on."

"If--"

He stands, pulling me up with him. "What's on your list?" he asks.

"You'll have to be more specific, Josh," I answer. "I am a woman of many lists."

"What makes you happy?"

"Getting a raise."

"Nice try. What reasonable things make you happy?"

Okay. It's my day to wear my heart on my sleeve, I guess. "Talking to you."

"What?"

"I live for the banter," I say solemnly.

"What else?"

"Working here."

Damn. Why are both the items on my list Josh-related?

"You need a third item."

"Shopping." Okay, it's a cliche, but at least it's not about Josh. "Of course, to truly enjoy shopping, I would need a raise."

"I've got a fourth item for my list," he says. "I am irrationally fond of listening to you come up with more reasons you need this raise you have no chance of getting."

"See? Things aren't completely bleak. Not while I'm here anyway."

"No," he says, and he pulls me closer, "not while you're here. It's when you leave..." He stops then. Whether because he realizes we're saying all the things on the list of Things We're Not Supposed to Acknowledge or because he doesn't want me to pursue the question of what happens when I leave I'm not sure.

He lets go of me and sits back at his desk. "I used to have a list once," he says. "I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish before I died."

"What's on that list?"

"Run a presidential campaign and win. Work in the White House." He gives me a sad little smile. "I realized lately that I've done almost everything on that list. Which would have been fortunate if things had turned out differently. I can die with only one regret now."

"Josh, please don't ever talk about dying. Don't even joke about it."

"Why not? It would be preferable to...Moments like this, Donna, they're getting rarer. The moments when I can actually feel something and laugh and get back a little of who I used to be...these moments are slipping away. Wouldn't it have been better to die while I could still feel?"

"No," I'm practically shouting. "No, it wouldn't. And it would be cruel. It would be the cruelest thing you could do. Don't say things like that."

"All right," he says. "I won't say it again."

"Don't think it either."

He doesn't say anything; he just looks me in the eye in that way that says he'll do what he wants and not even I can stop him.

After a minute, I turn to leave. To go back and finish my list of Things Josh Needs to Do Today as though it were an ordinary morning.

"Donna?" he asks as I reach the door. "Don't you want to know about my one regret?"

"What?"

"The one item on my list that I haven't accomplished."

"All right."

"I haven't kissed Donnatella Moss."

Oh. Well, isn't this our day of revelations?

"Well," I say, "good. Because, you know, that's unlikely to happen in the near future."

"Is it?"

"But, you know, it's not completely outside the realm of possibility. So you just cling to that thought, like a lifeline, and hang on. And maybe someday, in the very far future, if you're a good boy, you might get a little peck on the cheek."

"It's something to live for, I suppose."

"I've been told it's worth the wait."

"I don't doubt it." He smiles. He can still smile sometimes, at least.

"You should get some rest, Josh." If I don't change the subject, we could be on very unsafe ground here. We probably already are.

He picks up a folder and opens it. "Later."

I know when there's no chance he'll listen to me, so I nod and start out the door. "It will get better," I promise him and he nods. But he doesn't look at me, and I don't think I've convinced him.

After all, how can I convince him when I haven't even convinced myself?

THE END

12.12.00


End file.
